


A Stained Soul is the Color of Ashes

by EucalyptusKisses



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Best Friends, Big Brother Mycroft, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Canon Trans Character, Confused Sherlock, Confusion, Consulting Criminal, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Demisexuality, Doctor John Watson, Elementary Irene Adler, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Female John Watson, Friendship, Heterosexual Character, John is a Saint, Male-Female Friendship, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, New York, New York City, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pansexual Character, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Past Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Personal Growth, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock-centric, Temporary Amnesia, The Author Regrets Nothing, Trans Female Character, Turtles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:58:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EucalyptusKisses/pseuds/EucalyptusKisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ABANDONED.</p><p>--</p><p>Amnesia (noun): A partial or total loss of memory (for an unspecified amount of time).</p><p>Sherlock Holmes (proper noun): A consulting detective relocated from London to New York after drug abuse. Suffers from amnesia.</p><p>Joan Watson (proper noun): A surgeon-sober companion-consulting detective in training. Her best friend received a head wound at the climax of solving a case. Wants to know why he is behaving out of character.</p><p>Clyde (proper noun): A turtle who does not have to live in fear of one of his owners making turtle soup out of him anymore.</p><p>Ms. Hudson (proper noun): A cleaning lady with a free front row ticket to all the drama unfolding. Also possesses excellent cooking skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He wakes up in a hospital room alone, swathed in a thin and unflattering hospital gown and tucked under slightly heavy white sheets that bear no warmth. Everything in this room is a blinding stark white, and it is all inconsequential. 

 

He doesn’t know his own name - actually, he doesn’t know anything about _anything,_ not even the date - and he is alone in a room. He looks around, sees the IV hooked up to the inside of a vein, a heart monitor next to the bed. There is a bathroom in his room - it’s a private room, well taken care of, so clearly he comes from money. He reaches a hand up, feels the gauze wrapped around his head. He is in here for a head injury - and a serious injury it must be, for there is stubble around his face. He must have been here for quite some time. 

 

This is when he notices that his right leg is elevated and in a light blue cast. He realizes then that he must also have a broken rib or two; it’s getting harder to breathe and there is pain in his chest. It is irrelevant, though he wonders how the injuries were attained. 

 

He continues to look around the room, and his eyes settle on a sleek black phone sitting on a bedside table - a touchscreen mobile, maybe an iPhone? He picks it up and turns it on, then curses because there is a passcode required to enter the goddamn bloody thing. 

 

He turns it off, then on again, and looks at the backround picture. It is of a pretty Asian woman, wearing a black beret hat, a pink peacoat dress, high heeled TOM’s shoes (dusky caramel color, very stylish on her). She is wearing obnoxious blue eyeshadow and it looks like the picture was taken when she was either prancing or dancing around a fruit stall on a city street.

 

The man wonders if they were good friends at the time of the picture when the phone shuts off. He wonders if she knows she is functioning as a backround picture on a phone. He wonders, _Who is she?_ He lays back against the pillows and closes his eyes, but soon he’s sitting back up and turning the phone back on again. He stares more intensely at the backround, sweeping in all directions over it. He wants to take in as many details as he can; he needs something to hold onto in this world where he is certain of nothing.

 

He notices then that the woman is holding a large plastic bag that has baseball merchandise in it. And just like that, he thinks _Joan_. He doesn’t know why the name is so important, why it sends rings of relief through his body. One thing he is certain of, though, is that the woman is Joan and Joan is the woman. He types the name into the phone anyway, despite the revelation and relief, with the numbers the letters correspond to (5626).

 

And the phone opens. A woman’s name is his passcode. He wonders why.

 

But now he knows a third thing: Joan is the woman, and her name is the passcode. This means she must be the key to unlocking everything. She is the epicenter, and he needs to find her.


	2. Chapter 2

A nurse comes in twenty minutes later, when he is playing one of the apps on his phone after relieving himself in the bathroom. She doesn’t turn to him immediately, so he takes the time to shut off the device and place it back on the table - _quickly, quickly!_ he urges himself - before she faces him. He was playing a mindless game called Bubble Cloud, and he’s not sure why the hell he downloaded it (of course he doesn’t, he reminds himself, he’s got amnesia - only possible explanation). It’s making him question the sanity he must have had prior to the accident, this app, but he can’t focus on that now because the nurse is asking -

 

“How are you feeling?” the plump woman inquires. Her name tag reads Angela, and goddammit _no_ , his brain is doing that _thing_ where it notices _EVERY SINGLE LITTLE BLOODY DETAIL._

 

She’s a size 12, 

 

has two dogs, one small child,

 

divorced twice but married a third (cheating 

 

on husband #3 with a

 

military man),

 

three siblings - two older, one younger, but she might have a twin, hard to tell - and she

 

used to work in a more grotesque part of the hospital (that or she was a mortician 

 

at one point), and -

 

“I’m fine,” he tells her stiffly, even though he can’t cap the thoughts firing loosely, loudly, like cannons in his head.

 

“Sure you are, hun,” Angela says in that indulgent manner all nurses seem to have somehow acquired. _Maybe in med school?_ the man wonders, but it’s gone, that thought, quick as it came. “So, you’ve got quite the head wound; you ended up with a serious concussion - ”

 

 _It’s not a concussion if I can’t remember anything whatsoever,_ he thinks biting at her, but he doesn’t say a thing because now that he can’t remember anything, he sees it as a puzzle he needs to solve, wants to solve, _has_ to solve on his own because he’s clever and he doesn’t know why. Because of the detail noticing, maybe?

 

“ - along with three fractured ribs, a broken leg, and a dislocated shoulder,” Angela finishes. “You really shouldn’t be doing any strenuous activity for about ten weeks - it’ll take eight weeks for your ribs to heal and six to nine weeks for your leg to heal up properly.”

 

He nods, impatient for her to go. He doesn’t care what she thinks - he has things to do, bruised body be damned. He has to find Joan. 

 

“Your personal doctor, Dr. Watson, said she’ll be taking care of you while you recover, and making sure you heal properly. Do you have any questions, Sherlock?” Angela smiles at him in a gentle way, like she knows she’s been throwing a lot of information at him.

 

What he wants to know is: _What kind of name is_ Sherlock _?_ Did he make it up? He supposes it doesn’t matter, one way or the other; at least he knows his own name. That and the date: May 19, 2014. 

 

“How long have I been here?” Sherlock asks; that seems like a safe question. 

 

“Let me just check your file.” Angela opens a folder, and flips through a couple pages. “Alright. You got checked in here last week, on May twelve. You came in with a head wound - it was gushing blood and there was a slight fracture. There were also the damages to your ribs, leg, and shoulder, as I just told you.”

 

Sherlock nods, and then it occurs to him that he should ask her about Joan, see if Angela knows anything. “What about a woman named Joan? Wasn’t she with me?” He tries to make the question come off as casual but curious, like he just needs a reminder of things to get his bearing. 

 

Apparently the nurse buys his little charade, because she says, “Yes, your friend. Lucky for you she’s also your private doctor. She called an ambulance when you received your wounds. Joan wasn’t with you, but she arrived at the hospital soon after you were admitted. She went back home just an hour ago to get some sleep.”

 

Something about that doesn’t feel quite right, but Sherlock isn’t sure what it is. The Joan he saw as his backround didn’t strike him as someone who was a doctor. He isn’t sure why until he realizes: it was the middle of the day when that picture was taken. She should have been working instead of buying baseball merchandise and visiting a fruit stand. He supposes it could have been Saturday or Sunday; it would explain why she was out shopping instead of tending to patients. And yet, that doesn’t feel quite right either. 

 

“Shouldn’t you be asking me what I remember?” Sherlock inquires, looking at her more critically. “I must have been out for a week.”

 

Angela chuckles, like she’s a mother amused at something a toddler has done. “I suppose it makes sense you can’t remember yet - you got quite the blow to your head. You’ve been here for a week and spent all of it quite delirious. We had to do a small surgery to patch up your back; you got a small stab wound. So after your surgery, Sherlock, we put you on a lot of heavy pain meds, despite your doctor’s concerns; it was near your spine. You’ve been on some pretty heavy drugs all week while the wound healed - yesterday evening was when we finally decided that with stitches, it had healed enough that you wouldn’t have to rest on your stomach anymore.” Angela starts slipping more medical terms into her spiel to him; she doesn’t seem to realize she’s doing it. 

 

Sherlock can barely keep up; he’s not well-versed with medicine. But what he does understand, when she sees his confused expression, and simplifies her explanation is something along the lines of _short term memory loss, you’ll be fine in no time, just because of the hit to your head, you’ll be alright._

 

Will he, though?

 

That’s what Sherlock wonders long after Angela leaves to tend to other patients. He’s not certain he wants to be left alone with Joan. He isn’t sure how he knows, but he’s certain that there is something wrong with her being a doctor. That is when it occurs to him: he should check his texts. He must have Joan’s phone number saved. And if he does, then he’s most likely texted her, probably spent a lot of time with her outside of a professional work space, because how else would he have obtained his backround photo?

 

Sherlock opens up the phone again, flips through the amount of apps he has until he finds a green one labelled _Messages_.

 

He scrolls through the one’s he’s saved - he must have been a paranoid bugger; it looks like he never deleted any texts he sent or received. 

 

He goes back up to the most recent texts, and finds that yes, he was right: he and Joan have texted each other. And dammit, he texted her like he was 12, not the thirty or forty year old he must be.

 

March 13, 2014: 

 

_joan come 2 gregson’s office now crime scene waitin 2 b deduced 2_

 

**I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Sherlock. I just got out of the shower.**

 

_hurry up. ill be in his office wen u get here - S_

 

 

April 7, 2014:

 

**Sherlock, where are you?**

 

_im at a tobacco shop - S_

 

**I thought we established you would not be engaging in destructive habits anymore.**

 

_calm down. im learnin about different types of tobacco ash. there are over 200 different types - S_

 

**Why are you learning about that?**

 

_becuz im bored and ur no fun - S_

 

**It’s not my fault you don’t like doing “normal” leisure activities.**

 

_yoga is not normal - S_

 

**It’s actually very therapeutic and relaxing. You have to start off with the easy poses and work your way up to doing the harder ones.**

 

_smokin weed is also relaxin but i cant do that_

 

**Shut up and get your ass back home.**

 

**We can go to that beekeeping thing if you want.**

 

_srsly? - S_

 

_ill b home in 10 - S_

 

 

June 29, 2013: 

 

_do u want 2 go 2 an art museum? - S_

 

**Yeah; that sounds like fun. I’ve never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; can we go there?**

 

_ok. sounds like a plan. wen do u want 2 go? - S_

 

**Be ready in 10 :)**

 

 

And it goes on like that: they make plans to go places together. They go to crime scenes, text each other details about criminals and how to murder someone. They go to Central Park, talk about a trip to London they did together. 

 

Sherlock is confused about the last bit, wonders why they went to England. He knows he has a British accent, so he must have lived there for a long time or grown up there. But he cannot find a single contact in his phone that alludes to any British family members. Which makes him wonder: did he have a small family, and the last of them died, hence the trip to England? Was it just for fun? Surely they didn’t just up and leave - but Sherlock can’t be sure about that; based on past texts, he seems like a flighty person. Like someone who _would_ go to a foreign country after twenty minutes packing for no other reason than a desire for travel. 

 

His eyes drift back up to one of the texts she sent him: _I thought we established you would not be engaging in destructive habits anymore._ What does that mean?

 

Sherlock ponders this. While smoking cigarettes is no doubt unhealthy for anyone, the use of the phrase “destructive habits” seems a bit out of place. He had looked in the mirror in the bathroom, before Angela came in; there were no physical signs that he’d been a smoker. His teeth were fine, skin was fine (albeit bruised black and blue in a lot of places). Maybe he did something worse than smoke? 

 

His mind brings up a passing remark that Angela made a few minutes later - _we put you on a lot of heavy pain meds, despite your doctor’s concerns_. Why would Joan be concerned about the amount of heavy drugs in his system? Unless -

 

unless - 

 

he had a past drug problem. He couldn’t have been smoking marijuana; that wouldn’t have caused Joan to raise an eyebrow. Which begs the question: exactly what did he used to take to escape into his own oblivion? It had to have been a hard drug, like meth, cocaine, or heroin. 

 

Sherlock exited out of the texts exchanged between him and Joan looked at the other people he’d texted: someone called Gregson, someone called Bell. It seemed they were mostly work related; with both people, it seemed that he interacted with them only on a professional level. 

 

January 8, 2014:

 

**_Sherlock, I have a new case I want you to take a look at. - Gregson_ **

 

_What is it? - S_

 

**_It’s an unusual one. Got someone who breaks into houses in the dead of night, and sketches his victims before he kills them. He’s targeting people whose first and last names start with the same letter. - Gregson_ **

 

_How many vic’s? - S_

 

**_Two. Hurry up and get down here. - Gregson_ **

 

_I’ll be there shortly. - S_

 

A quick search reveals that Gregson works at the N.Y.P.D. - so if he’s calling Sherlock down to look at cases, that means that he, Sherlock, must also work there. He wonders if he works as some sort of freelance officer, if that occupation even exists. 

 

Sherlock has little time to wonder about his job, because soon he has slipped into a restless, dreamless sleep. It is black and peaceful, and when he wakes, there are warm tendrils of an evening sun the color of saffron flame coming into his room, slanted because they are coming through the shaded window. 

 

He blinks himself awake, and sees a dinner tray on the bedside table - it has a slice of chicken, some rice, green beans, and a cookie, with salt and pepper in little paper containers on the side. There is a bottle of water and a cup sitting next to the tray of food, and he silently, slowly, reaches for it, exquisitely thirsty when he sees it. He is about to bring the tray over to himself, so he can slowly eat with the plastic fork and knife, when there is a small cough. 

 

Sherlock is thrown for a moment, because _he_ most certainly didn’t cough, so who did? He is alone in the room. He turns his head, and no, he is not alone. Not anymore. 

 

There is Joan, setting down a worn paperback book. She is putting it away, and starting to look up at him, and he says, voice raspy, “Joan.”

 

Just one word, but it makes him feel like time is standing still. They are locked in this moment, where everything has come to a standstill, and life is moving on outside. But they are paused into a moment where he feels like lightening is going through his system because they are looking into each other’s eyes. 

 

It’s like he’s seeing her for the first time. 

 

But apparently Joan doesn’t feel the same way - it doesn’t even seem like she felt like they were in their own bubble, because she is standing up and coming over to him, not missing a beat when she says, “Sherlock! You scared me! I’m so glad you’re OK. Next time I’m gonna kill you if you ever pull a stunt like that again. 

 

 _A stunt like what?_ Sherlock wonders, as she comes over to grasp his hand momentarily. His stomach flutters, and he wonders if he was far gone for one Joan Watson prior to the accident.

 

He doesn’t ask, though, because it has to seem like he hasn’t forgotten anything at all. “I won’t,” Sherlock reassures her.

 

Joan laughs, a little tinkling, rich sound. “Sure you won’t. Next time just tell me before you run off to chase a serial killer with nothing but a bagpipe to defend yourself.”

 

“When can I go home?” he demands, wanting desperately, abruptly, to be able to explore his relationship with Joan without the confines of a hospital “I hope today.”

 

“Easy there,” Joan replies, a smile playing around her lips. “They’re keeping you in intensive care overnight; we’ll go home tomorrow, probably around lunchtime. Only because I’m more than qualified to look after you.”

 

So tomorrow at midday. He could wait that long. Hopefully.

 

They slip into a small rhythm, a give and take. She gives him news for he missed - not much, apparently. The N.Y.P.D. is coping just fine without him, and will try to make do with Joan standing in for him while he recovers - he learns that he is a “consulting detective”; apparently he made up the job. And he was training Joan to be just like him. 

 

It is nice to glean what he does for a living, and that he is good at it - the best, according to Joan. 

 

And all the while, he wonders what, exactly, their relationship is. She is more to him than just a doctor. But how much is more than a doctor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, I know that Joan was a surgeon, not a doctor. I also know she didn’t renew her medical license/she resigned from practicing medicine. Just think of this as me taking a bit of a creative license with this story. I needed an explanation for why they would let Sherlock go out of the hospital so soon, so I decided to slightly change Joan’s first profession.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I don’t want to sound angry when I say this, because I’m not mad. I appreciate that a lot of you will leave reviews saying things like “can’t wait for the next update!! Love your story!” It makes me happy that you like this story because it makes me feel appreciated as a fanfiction writer. My one request is: can all of you please stop saying “can’t wait for the next update” or “can’t wait to read more”? Like I said before, I’m glad so many people like this story. When you say that sort of stuff to me, it adds to the stress and anxiety levels I have, which are pretty high because I have eight classes, three jobs, and am a senior in high school. And I feel like I’m only hearing “mORE” whenever I read a review. I just - I feel like I need to make more people happy when I see the comments I mentioned before, and it stresses me out because it’s like another bar I have to jump over. And I shouldn’t feel like that. So instead of saying “can’t wait to read the next chapter”, “excited for what happens”, etc., can you all please just use the codeword “cheese balls” to mean that? Personally, I love binge-eating cheese balls, so it will make me happy to see that word, and it just encourages me to write the next chapter without also adding stress.

When they get home the next day, Joan helps him around the flat while she explains the layout of the place. 

 

Unfortunately, his bedroom is on the second floor. Up a flight of stairs that is intimidating to someone with as many injuries as Sherlock has. And there is no elevator.

 

It’s inconvenient, really, but Sherlock _needs_ to get up there. Joan didn’t seem surprised at all with his behavior in the cab they took to get back home

 

(“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Joan had asked him. 

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock informed her. “I’m going to sit and watch trashy TV.”

 

“As long as you do the exercises the doctor gave me. They’ll help.” 

 

It seemed like she was going to say more, and _god_ Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to talk, so he just said, “Shush. No talking.” 

 

And she didn’t say a word, though her annoyed-amused expression said everything).

 

But he needs to know more about the person he was before before he lost his mind. Well, his memories. Same difference. 

 

His charade is the event of the season, and no one knows it but him. He needs to pull it off without anyone realizing he has no idea about anything. And he needs to be able to play himself without anyone getting suspicious. 

 

When Joan is done showing him around the immaculate flat, he decides it’s now or never. “I’m going to change,” he informs her, because really, this outfit is grungy and doesn’t match. 

 

“All right. I need to run some errands, and I have to stop by the N.Y.P.D. Apparently Gregson has a new case. Mrs. Hudson said she’d come by and make some soup for you in an hour,” Joan tells him. “She knows you’ve been in the hospital; we’re going to take turns looking after you. I’ll need all the extra help I can get. Don’t do anything stupid, ok?” 

 

“I’m not that difficult,” Sherlock mutters as he hobbles over to the flight of stairs with his crutches. “And I won’t.”

 

Joan doesn’t say anything; she just gives him an affectionate eye-roll. He helps her put on her favored black beret (well, he tries to; he kind of fails), and soon Joan is gone. 

 

It takes him fifteen minutes to get up the stairs, and Sherlock is huffing and panting like he just ran a 3K race by the time he gets to the second floor. He pokes at his upper torso, and notices that there’s a bit of sweat from his excursion. 

 

Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to wipe away the memories of the hospital off his body, so he decides to take a shower. It’s probably what Joan would classify as ‘reckless’ or ‘stupid’, and that tugs briefly at him. Sherlock shifts on his crutches, and walks over to the door on the right; apparently that’s his room.   
  
The one on the opposite side of the floor is Joan’s - convenient, he thinks, that she is close. Makes it easier for her to get to him. He finds a pair of clean briefs, a black band shirt for AC/DC , and loose gray sweatpants. These seem more than acceptable in comparison to the slightly small dark red plaid shirt and trousers he has on, so Sherlock folds them as best he can and slowly takes them back to the bathroom. 

 

Getting into the shower turns out to be the real struggle. He’d thought it had been hard getting out of his trousers because of the cast (he know understands how necessary scissors are in a functioning society), but bathing is a whole other rodeo. Sherlock has to lean against a wall in an awkward sitting position while figuring out how exactly he’s going to get clean. He awkwardly grabs a bar of soap - sandalwood, _who decided to get sandalwood, between the two of us?_ he wonders - and begins to scrub it over his legs and arms. It takes a while to get his body clean with the soap - a good fifteen minutes, he estimates; it was slow-going. But finally, that part is done. 

 

Sherlock figures that for now, all he could manage was to wash his hair and he’d be good to go. He grabs a large white bottle of shampoo and began to dump some into his hair. It isn’t until he begins to slather it around with his hands that the scent hit him. It is like cucumbers or something of the sort - very airy and fresh, but also clearly feminine. It was confusing, because really, why would _Joan’s_ things be in the bathroom? However, his suspicions are confirmed when he looks at the bottle, oblivious to the warm water sliding down his body. It is definitely feminine, and definitely in his shower. 

 

Why? 

 

As soon as Sherlock wonders, it comes to him: they shared a bathroom. Which meant all of their hygienic products were in one place. Odd, when he considered it. 

 

He knew that he had to have come from a rich family based on the hospital room he’d stayed in (his and Joan’s flat was extremely sparsely decorated, and the furniture was mismatched. Everything else was strewn about in the shabby brownstone place, like it had been forgotten). Sherlock knew he didn’t get paid to be a consulting detective, so there was no way he could be renting the flat, much less afford the hospital room (or the cost of the surgeries. Or, hell, even the visit). Clearly he did not care about his living space, provided that it was place for him to take shelter in and think. Which meant he was probably dependent on his parents financially. Maybe there was only the one bathroom, and that’s why he and Joan were sharing. 

 

A thought he’d been refusing to consider was trying to make itself known, and Sherlock realized he had no choice but to acknowledge it: there was a high chance he and Joan were dating. They shared the same living space, were rarely apart and yet somehow had a healthy functional relationship. Joan was _happy_ when she was with him (and vice versa); he could feel the warmth of her good mood like it was a heater. She had, according to texts sent from Gregson in 2012, made him a better person. Made him whole again - or at least less broken. 

 

And Joan had told him in a text that he had eclipsed her life. That she couldn’t remember what it had been like before him, that he had just sort of inserted himself into all her memories. Sherlock had a strong feeling that if he could remember, he wouldn’t be able to remember a time without Joan, either. 

 

It didn’t explain, though, why they were in separate rooms. Perhaps, Sherlock speculates, they’d just started cohabiting, and still needed their own space. He knew Joan was an independent person, and that he was as well. Perhaps they both needed time to adjust to their now shared living space. Sherlock continued to think about it as he finished his shower at an excruciatingly slow pace, wondering about how they’d met, and where. How long they’d been together. 

 

But it wasn’t until he was done changing that he realized they might not actually be dating. It was normal for friends to share an apartment, and if this was the only bathroom they had, then it did explain why they shared it. 

 

Sherlock frowns, wondering at what to do. He had to figure out a way to find out if they were dating or not without anyone catching on. They couldn’t realize he remembered nothing; this was the only thing that would keep him properly occupied for the next ten weeks. He’d move heaven and hell before he let someone take away this last precious puzzle. 

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he breathes, realizing she could be the ticket he needed. She would no doubt know about his status with Joan; Joan had reminded him on the way over to pay Mrs. Hudson for her housekeeping duties, and for running errands for them. Meaning Mrs. Hudson had gone out of her way to do something that wasn’t in her job description. Balance of probability? She was a close friend to Sherlock and Joan. 

 

And she was the woman he needed right now. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what it was about the people he knew, but it seemed that whenever he needed answers from someone, they were somehow always in a close vicinity to him. Like they had bloody psychic powers and just popped out from the ground. 

For there was Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, making a large pot of bean soup when he got downstairs. She had blonde hair, with some curls and waves in it, and she wore an informal outfit, meaning that he was right - she was a friend, and he didn’t care what she wore so long as she did what he paid her to do. 

 

“Sherlock! There you are,” Mrs. Hudson says, turning around to face him. “Let me help you sit down.” She walks over to him, pulls out a chair and leans his crutches against the table. The shades are pulled up, and bright, natural light is spilling into the kitchen. The radio is turned on, playing a song about how someone is beautiful, and there are ingredients and kitchenware all over the room. Mrs. Hudson has somehow managed to get the most delectable scent to come out of the pot of food she’s making, and Sherlock wonders where she learned to cook as his throat clogs and his eyes briefly mist. 

 

He doesn’t know why; there’s no reason for him to be unhappy, but the feeling is there nonetheless. It takes him a minute to realize he is feeling overwhelming gratitude and platonic affection for Mrs. Hudson, for her comforting presence and food. 

 

When she lowers the volume on the radio, Sherlock asks tentatively, “Can I ask you a question, Mrs. Hudson?”

“If it’s about Clyde, I bought him a little space to live him - don’t worry, I didn’t sell him,” she tells him cheerfully as she sets some water in front of him. 

 

He can only assume that Clyde is a pet, but decides not to ask question about the animal, even though he has a few. “Oh, I wasn’t worrying about him,” Sherlock assures her. “I just - I wondered, how do you perceive my relationship with Joan?” 

 

“How do you mean?” Mrs. Hudson queries over the instrumental tune from the radio and the popping from the pot. 

 

“Are we compatible?” This is really what it comes down to. He knows they’re compatible roommates, and hopes Mrs. Hudson understands that he’s asking about his relationship with Joan. What she tells him, direct or indirect, will determine everything. 

 

She does pick up on what he does not say, because she gives him quite the answer. “I think you two are like two sides of the same coin, but even that doesn’t seem quite right. I think it falls a bit short, like it doesn’t encompass what you two.” She sighs, turns off the fire on the stove and walks over, sits across from him. “I remember what you were like before you two met. You were - god, you were miserable, Sherlock. I know it was because of the drugs, and everything, but even if you weren’t an addict, you’d still be the most miserable sod I’d have ever met. It kind of - it kind of changed when you met Joan. Personally, I think you two were looking for each other for your entire lives, and you just didn’t realize it.” 

 

Mrs. Hudson absently doodles a bit of a flower on a scrap piece of paper, then looks up at him. “It was sweet, to see you two working together, when you first hired me. It was like watching you two in tandem . . . you two were holding each other’s hearts and it was the most lovely give and take moments I’d ever seen. Always an equal friendship between you two.” 

 

She laughs, and says, “God, listen to me. I’m off sprouting poetry about you and Joan. I’ve been reading a lot of romance novels; I bet you can tell. Let me get you a bowl of soup; it’ll do you well.”

 

Sherlock nods, and says, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve been having a hard time verbalizing my relationship with Watson; I think you put it beautifully.”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughs again and ruffles his hair in sisterly affection before setting the food in front of him. It’s then that he notices distantly that she has an Adam’s apple - meaning she is transgender. 

 

He congratulates his past self for not being transphobic and gaining a good friend as a result as he shoves her food into his mouth - because _holy hell hallelujah_ she knows how to cook well. 

 

What Sherlock does wonder, as he lays on the couch and watches _The Brothers Grimm_ , is why does it matter to him that he and Joan are just friends? Why is there a plummeting sensation in his stomach?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this seems kind of ironic, given that I’m writing Elementary fanfiction, but I don’t consider myself part of the fandom. I’m a Sherlockian who’s seen the first season of Elementary and nothing else (because I am a broke fucker who can’t afford season 2). So here’s my question to all my lovely readers: Is it bad that even though I’m a Sherlockian through and through, I think that Elementary’s Mrs. Hudson is far better than the one on Sherlock?


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I know that in Elementary canon, Sherlock was dating Irene/Moriarty. I know, ok? However, this is a bit of an AU, since I’m taking some liberties with the characters and whatnot. I originally wanted an eventual Joaniarty (Joan/Irene-Moriarty), but I realized that Joan would be getting with Sherlock’s ex-girlfriend. And I think that friend’s who get with one of their friends’ ex’s is a really tacky move, so just for the sake of convenience, we’re going to pretend that Moriarty and Irene are two separate people, and they’re sisters in this story. So Sherlock dated Jessamine Moriarty, and Joan is going to end up with Irene Adler.

Sherlock paced around the flat while Mrs. Hudson was out with Joan. 

 

Originally, Ms. Hudson had chattered to Joan over black tea and jam thumbprint cookies. They had quarantined themselves in Joan’s bedroom with their afternoon snack, and banished Sherlock to the lower half of the flat. They were having a “girl bonding day” and therefore, Sherlock was not allowed to participate. 

 

Of course, once he’d gone to check on them after a long nap, he found they’d just left to go shopping. So he hadn’t gotten to say good-bye.

 

It had also been _five_ bloody hours since he’d seen them. Joan and Mrs. Hudson were periodically checking up on him and reminding him that there was a registered nurse a floor above him who would be helping him while they were gone. 

 

Her name was Janine, and Sherlock didn’t like her. He’d fired Janine after an hour of her company because she was dull as a mole. When she hadn’t taken the blatant hint he didn’t want her around, Sherlock had set off some fireworks, ensuring that she was too unsettled to stay in the flat with him. Afterwards, he’d had Gregson bring over some cold case files for him to solve, and Sherlock had been pouring over the two thick, large bins of files ever since. 

 

But now he was bored, having been cooped up in the flat for two days. And he was beginning to wonder how long it took women to shop. He tumbled down gracelessly next to Clyde, whom Sherlock had let out of his green, leafy habitat to roam around the floor of the kitchen.

 

“Honestly, they’re just looking at clothes; why do they need all day to get new fabrics to wear on their bodies?” Sherlock whines to the turtle. Of course, Clyde didn’t answer, and Sherlock realized the animal would be of no help. “You’re so useless,” he informs the turtle. “Except as a paperweight. You’re a nice paperweight, Clyde, even though you move too much.”

 

Sherlock groans softly to himself, realizing what was happening: he was _talking_ to a _turtle._ It was either a sign for help or a sign that he needed to get out and breathe some air. He decides the second sign was correct, and thumbs out a quick text to Joan ( _got bored so goin out for a few hrs, dnt worry i wont get hurt or anything. - S_ ) as he labors up the stairs to change into trousers and a plaid shirt. 

 

He grabs his wallet and shoves it into his pocket before clambering back down the stairs, briefly wondering if he needed anything else. Then he remembers: key. He needs his key in order to get back into his flat. It was, conveniently, hanging on a lanyard near the door. Sherlock sent out a grateful thank you to whoever had thought that to be a good idea. 

 

Soon enough, he is outside, and Sherlock sucks in a breath with closed eyes. The aroma outside smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender, an odd but pleasant combination. He grasps his crutches more firmly as he maneuvers himself down the steps and out onto the sidewalk. 

 

It occurs to Sherlock then that he can’t remember anything about New York. He doesn’t know his address, doesn’t know the city. He doesn’t know where the hell he’s planning on going. 

 

 _Well, I suppose that’s the fun in things,_ he muses to himself, tentatively walking towards a bustling sidewalk corner. _I’ll just have to reacquaint myself with the city._ With that, Sherlock picks up his gait, and begins heading towards a cluster of bright-looking shops a block or so away from him. It is a warm day, and Sherlock wonders if he ought to go back in to change into shorts. In all honesty, he doesn’t really want to go through the difficult process of changing - not now, when he is nearing coffee shops and book stores and art museums. 

 

He finds it difficult to cross streets at the same brisk pace as everybody else, especially when there were so many buses, cabs, and cars on the roads. A few people in cars seem vaguely annoyed at his slower pace, but it’s not like he can help it. When he’s finished crossing, he drifts into a cheerful shop, which turns out to be a gelato shop. He buys a small cone with a scope of cappuccino flavored gelato, settling into a small booth to eat it. He nearly drops the sugary treat a few times getting to the booth, but he makes it there alright.

 

It takes Sherlock all of seven minutes to finish eating, and then he’s outside again, searching for another place to visit. He went into a coffee-shop, bought an iced coffee. He half considers staying; there is a thick newspaper laying on an unused table, and it is recent. It could catch him up on what he couldn’t remember. But the shop is mostly vacant, and Sherlock drifts out again, unwilling to stay in such a quiet atmosphere. 

 

He buys a thick baguette from a man selling bread on a sidewalk a few blocks later. Then hails a cab straightaway. Sherlock informs the driver to take him to the nearest bookstore, which ends up being close to Baisley Pond in Queens. He buys _Inferno_ by Dan Brown, then heads over to the pond, where he feeds fish the bread and reclines under a tree afterwards to read.

 

Sherlock tries not to think about how he still can’t remember anything, tries to concentrate on the book. But he just can’t. His gaze drifts out to look at the pond, at the people surrounding it, at the birds spearing for fish. So far, he’s only sure of four things: He is a consulting detective who recently started getting paid for his services to the N.Y.P.D.; he used to have a drug problem (ended up in rehab for six months and broke out the day he was being released); he and Joan have been friends for two years, flatmates for the same amount of time, and she is no longer a doctor. He also seems to be a bit a of an introverted  and flighty recluse with limited social skills, a hermit focused on beekeeping and crime-solving. 

 

It makes him wonder how the hell he can fool everybody for any amount of time. 

 

* * *

 

 

Joan was an idiot, and didn’t bother to check her phone when it buzzed. She was too engrossed in the story Ms. Hudson was telling, about exactly how she’d masterminded her grade’s senior prank in high school. 

 

“ . . . So, anyway, I _had_ to get back at my ex-boyfriend, Dennis, because he was just such an asshat, you know? All that name-calling directed at me, and not being understanding of my gender identity. I decided to plant the idea we should ‘steal’ some farm animals from my uncle’s farm, just some chickens and pigs and sheep. We let them loose on the school property, so animals were roaming around on the football field, eating the grass, and messing up the tennis court,” Mrs. Hudson related between breathy giggles. “I was so mad at my ex I stuck his picture on one of the pigs and wrote underneath: ‘It looks like Dennis Coleman got loose’.” 

 

Joan is struggling to control her laughter; it’s hard to picture one Ms. Cecelia Hudson as an angry teenager. They are walking out of Barney’s with more clothes than they need - the owner was an apologetic female in her thirties, whom Sherlock had helped off a murder charge years ago. The woman learned that Ms. Hudson and Joan were close friends of Sherlock and worked with him, and said they could have whatever they wanted, free of charge. Ms. Hudson thought it was because the woman was still hung up on Sherlock. Joan thought that it was because she felt the need to pay back an imaginary debt. 

 

Either way, they’d gotten enough items that would cost more than their yearly salaries combined. 

 

“I can’t believe you really did that,” Joan gasped out with a wide smile, hailing a cab. “We didn’t do senior pranks at my high school; we were two much of goody-goody’s to even think of doing pranks.”

 

“Oh, speaking of pranks, you should hear the ones Sherlock’s pulled,” Ms. Hudson informed her, giggling. “He’s definitely creative when it comes to that sort of thing.”

 

“Sherlock? Pulling pranks?” Joan tried to imagine it, though it was unsuccessful. “I can’t imagine him doing that sort of stuff.” She peered out onto the street; although cabs were coming and going, they were all filled. 

 

“Tell him to tell you about some of the stuff he’s pulled,” Ms. Hudson suggested, looking out with Joan. “Here, I’ll try to wave one down.” She expertly let out a piercing whistle, and Joan couldn’t help but wince. 

 

Moments later, a cab pulled up, and they quickly got in before someone else could use it. Joan rattled off her address to the driver while she pulled out her phone. It’d been almost an hour and a half since she’d heard from Sherlock, and she was starting to feel guilty about leaving him alone. Joan was about to relay that thought to Ms. Hudson, when she read the last text he’d sent her and groaned. “Goddamn,” she muttered, annoyed. “Seriously?”

 

“What’s wrong?” Ms. Hudson asked, concern laced in her voice. She looked at Joan like she was starting to expect the worst. 

 

“It’s Sherlock,” Joan told the other woman. “He went out of the apartment like an hour or so ago. He’s more bored than I realized.”

 

“That’s a bit problematic. Did he say where he is?” Ms. Hudson looked at Joan expectantly. “Maybe we should check his usual haunts. I can call Gregson and ask if Sherlock’s with him.”

 

“No . . . I’ll text Sherlock now and ask where he is,” Joan murmured, typing out a text to the detective. 

 

She sent it, then leaned back against the seat and looked out the window. “I’ll make some dinner when we pick him up and get back home,” Ms. Hudson announced softly. “What do you want to eat?”

 

“Are you sure you want to cook?” Joan looked at her, not wanting her to work if she felt tired. “We did have a long day. I can order take-out.”

 

Ms. Hudson shook her head. “Oh, no, honey; I like cooking. It’s therapeutic. I was thinking about chicken pasta - doesn’t that sound good? Maybe with a nice large bowl of salad and garlic bread.”

 

Joan nodded her agreement. “That _does_ sound good,” she said appreciatively, envisioning the meal already. Her phone buzzed with a response as soon as she finished speaking, and she read the text. “God _damn_ ,” she groaned again. “He’s at Baisley Pond, which is like thirty minutes away. Why did he have to leave while we were gone?” Joan told the cab driver the new destination, then felt Ms. Hudson’s reassuring hand patting her shoulder.

 

“You know Sherlock,” the blonde woman told her. “He’d have taken off regardless of where we were. He was bored and probably felt cooped up. He doesn’t always think things through, but he’ll be OK now. Not like he was before. Sherlock’s got us now to look out for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who’s homoromantic, I can get very sexual very fast. Like I’ll flirt sexually with all the girls I know, rattle off sex facts, do hip thrusting, etc. I don’t know why. Honestly it’s kind of amusing because the one asexual - a la me - in my friend group is the one who is the most unfazed by sex. I blame it on the copious amounts of graphic gay porn I’ve been reading for the past six years. ‘Cause, you know, I’ve gotta live vicariously through Johnlock and Destiel having sex with each other. So, three part question to my readers: A) If you’re not asexual and you’ve had sex, how many times do you have it/have you had it? Because I always wonder about this. B) do I have any asexual people reading this? C) What’s one weird thing you’ve learned about sex? I learned that a teaspoon of semen has five calories. Which makes me wonder how many calories someone gets when they give a person with a penis a blowjob, assuming they swallow.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know where this came from. I should be reading “The Scarlet Letter” for English, and instead this chapter happened. I know it’s really short compared to the other chapters I’ve written, but whatever.

Clyde was mad. The Loud And Kooky One had left him _outside of his habitat_. And The Loud And Kooky One had left his habitat, just like The Lettuce Bearer and The One With Treats. He wasn’t sure how long his owners had been gone, but it had been long enough. Clyde was hungry and he wanted food. Despite his thorough (and short) search of the “kitchen”, there was no food to be found. 

 

This had led him to believe that The Lettuce Bearer and The One With Treats somehow managed to just make food _appear._ But apparently there was more to it than just wishful thinking: no matter how hard he tried, he could not make the tasty salmon The One With Treats gave him to appear. 

 

It grieved Clyde to no end. He crawled slowly to the outside of his habitat, trying ignore the little stabs of hunger he felt (he had to especially ignore the longing for nap in shallow water while hanging onto a piece of driftwood).  It was _hard_ being him: sometimes his owners forgot to feed 

him and he would only get one meal a day. Sometimes The Loud and Kooky One would _drum “pens”_ on his shell - something Clyde found unacceptable. He always tried to get away, but The Loud and Kooky One would bring him back and keep doing it. 

 

Clyde didn’t like that one very much. His favorite person was The One With Treats. She would always give him yummy things to eat, like worms, strawberries, and turnip green. And once a month, she would even give him a bit of watermelon! The One With Treats was amazing, as far as Clyde was concerned. The Lettuce Bearer wasn’t as much fun as The One With Treats, since the former made him run around for his food (apparently “exercise” was good for him. Clyde wanted to say otherwise). But at least she wasn’t crazy like The Loud And Kooky One, and always made sure he was healthy. 

 

The tortoise rested his head against the wall of his habitat and looked longingly inside it. He desperately wanted to be back inside taking a nap near the shallow pool of water, but it looked like he would have to settle for sunbathing next to (and outside of, unfortunately) his home. 

 

Clyde was starting to fall into a doze when a door was opened with gusto. He jerked his head up, annoyed that his sleep had been interrupted. He looked up, trying to understand what was going on. 

 

There were voices, loud and chattering, accompanied by a faint and sweet smell. He wondered if he would be receiving a treat today.

 

Soon enough, he identified the voices as his owners, and wondered what they were talking about.

 

“ . . . I don’t know _why_ you had to wander around without me, Sherlock. Couldn’t you have just waited until Mrs. Hudson and I got home?” The Lettuce Bearer was saying. She sounded amused and faintly annoyed. 

 

Ah. So The Loud and Kooky One was in trouble. Clyde attempted a smile, happy about it. Finally. His time had come: he would help The Lettuce Bearer hold her crazy friend liable. 

 

He slowly began a march toward his owners, trying to find them by the sounds they were making. Clyde felt like he was marching to war - which he felt he was doing. He was finally taking up arms and retaliating against The Loud and Kooky One. Now all he needed was a song to march to.

 

That, apparently, would have to wait, as his owners were rounding into the room Clyde was in, and almost stepped on him. Well, The Lettuce Bearer almost did. 

 

“Joan!” The One With Treats cried out sharply. “Clyde’s right there in front of you.”

 

The Lettuce Bearer started, like she was surprised, and jerked herself back. Quicker than Clyde would have liked, he was being picked up by The Lettuce Bearer. “Crap. You ok, little guy?” The Lettuce Bearer peered at him in what seemed to be scrutinizing concern. 

 

What annoyed Clyde was that she always called him ‘little guy’ or ‘Clyde’. He was _at war_ with The Loud and Kooky One. He felt he ought to be addressed as General BowlBasaur The Just. 

 

“Why’s he out of his cage?” The Lettuce Bearer was still cradling Clyde, but she’d turned to face The Loud and Kooky One, who seemed oddly afraid.

 

“I . . . I must have forgotten to put him back before I left,” The Loud and Kooky One murmured.

 

The One With Treats jumped into the conversation, as if she was trying to appease the other two. “Here; why don’t I take Clyde and put him back. I can start on dinner too.”

 

Soon enough he was passed off to his favorite person, only to be back into his habitat. It made him pout and sulk, especially when she started getting out food and didn’t give him any treats like usual. 

 

Clyde waddled up and pressed his face to the “glass” of his habitat, trying to hear what his owners were saying. 

 

The Lettuce Bearer and The Loud and Kooky One were now in the “kitchen” too, chattering to each other while they got out their required eating materials. 

 

“Sherlock, why are you getting out that mug?” The Lettuce Bearer was looking at The Loud and Kooky One with surprise. “You always use that chipped glass during dinners.”

 

“Oh - I wasn’t - I wasn’t really paying attention.” The Loud and Kooky One had the same tone as he did when he was caught doing something mean to Clyde, like drawing things on his shell. 

 

Clyde supposed the mug had been put back, as there was noise in the “cabinets” above his home.

 

Then The One With Treats was putting the turtle soup pot on the “stove” when she said slowly, “Sherlock, your favorite glass is in the other cabinet.” A pause, and then, “No, the one next to that one.”

 

“Ah. Found it,” The Loud and Kooky One said, putting it on the table hastily before going out of the food area. 

 

The Lettuce Bearer and The One With Treats were exchanging a _Look_ with each other. Then The Lettuce Bearer moved her friend’s glass to its respective spot. 

 

“Does Sherlock seem a bit . . . _off_ to you, Mrs. Hudson?” The Lettuce Bearer finally said, when The One With Treats was making the air smell good. 

 

“Maybe just a bit,” the nice one said, stirring something in the turtle soup pot. “It’s a been a few days since the accident, though. He probably just needs more time to get adjusted. Besides, didn’t the doctors say he’d have memory loss?”

 

The Lettuce Bearer was making a :/ face as she replied. “Yeah, but he’s supposed to have _short-term_ memory loss. How would Sherlock forget his favorite glass - the one he’s been supposedly using for years?” She paused before adding, “Plus, he actually called me Joan when we were coming home today, and he didn’t care that we didn’t study jujitsu today together. Sherlock hates missing the time allotted to teach me stuff.”

 

The One With Treats just shrugged. “Sherlock’s not being as inflexible and rigid as he used to be. Maybe the accident just made him realize it’s ok to relax and enjoy life.”

 

Clyde wasn’t sure _exactly_ what they were talking about. Were “accident” and “injury” another word for The Loud and Kooky’s absence (which had also been the best of Clyde’s life since living with his new owners)? What he wanted to know to know was whether The Loud and Kooky One would leave him alone now that he had apparently changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question of the day: What is your favorite song? Also, should I write a future chapter from Clyde's perspective? I had fun writing from his POV.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter - I just could not get around my writer's block. I’m sorry I didn’t update sooner; I had two very serious real life scares. I’m not going into detail about them, but one involved someone who was very violating with me - no, I didn’t get raped, thank God. I was in a position and place where I easily could have been by this guy, so I’m very grateful it didn’t happen. 
> 
> I just want you all to know that if you did/do get raped, it is NOT your fault. It is the rapist’s fault for violating you and being extremely disrespectful of you and your wishes, whether you verbally said no, thought “No, I don’t want this to happen/go any further” and/or made it clear with your body language they were doing something you weren’t comfy with. I’m gonna leave some resources at the end of the chapter for all you about this, because I want you all to stay safe. Or be safe. You get what I mean.

Out of all the holidays in the U.S., Ms. Hudson hated Thanksgiving the most. She hated preparing a turkey for a meal. She especially hated having to make a roast one with sage leaves and butter under the skin. She hated having to make shrimp cocktails black olives from the can, mini gherkins, bread and butter pickles and dill spears for an appetizer. She hated to make sausage stuffing with with onions and celery, mashed white potatoes, gravy made from scratch, green bean fried onion casserole, cranberry jello for a meal. And a pumpkin pie for dessert. 

 

Ms. Hudson was sick of the set-in-stone recipe that was time-consuming and exhausting to make, especially if it fell onto one person. And that one person had to find all the ingredients in addition to making said food. 

 

It was also why she loved those large, grand meals that felt like an entire production.There wasn’t very much else that Ms. Hudson had to do; cooking was therapeutic and allowed her to do something when she was bored or didn’t know how else to spend her time.

 

Her job as 221B’s house-keeper didn’t fill up a lot of time. Ms. Hudson only had to clean the apartment Joan and Sherlock lived in once a week. Although, it usually took her two days, as she was thorough and meticulous. The only other things Ms. Hudson had to do was do Joan and Sherlock’s laundry, and take care of Clyde. Ms. Hudson called the turtle Binky when they were alone, because it sounded like such a cheerful little name for a cheerful little animal. 

 

Sherlock was a lax boss - he let her wear whatever she wanted and she could talk to her friends on her phone while she was working . . . it was nice. There weren’t any rules. As long as Ms. Hudson did what she was paid to do, it didn’t matter when or how it got done during the week (unless she was preparing a meal; then there was more of a time crunch). 

 

Today was one of those days when she was being paid to cook an extravagant meal - Sherlock had come home breathless and a bit sweaty from a case with Joan. It had been a case of a serial killer who murdered couples three weeks - and was nicknamed the Phantom Killer because out of all his victims, only two had survived. And out of those two, only one had seen the murderer. The descriptions provided were less helpful and more nerve-wracking. 

 

And for whatever reason, it had prompted Sherlock to want a Thanksgiving style dinner. So there Ms. Hudson was, in the middle of May, cooking holiday food in a messy as hell kitchen. She wasn’t exactly sure why this kind of dinner was being requested; it seemed odd at the very least.

 

Joan said his request was probably due to him being his normal self - more or less - and was therefore in one of his _moods_. 

 

Which meant Sherlock was in a very prickly, shut off mood and self-isolating by locking himself in his room and playing on his violin.

 

Neither of the women cared very much - they should, they really ought to, but Joan and Ms. Hudson knew that he wouldn’t strain himself; Sherlock would stand or walk around playing for several hours before taking a shower and then napping before dinner. 

 

It had been a few hours since Sherlock had come back - Ms. Hudson had just now found all the ingredients and brought them back home, per his text while solving the case. As she unloaded the groceries and tried to put them all away before getting started on cooking, she attempted to balance her cell phone on her shoulder so she could keep talking to her best friend, Linda, who was gender-queer (although unlike one Ms. Martha Hudson, Linda was gender-neutral). 

 

 _“ . . . and finally I narrowed the list down to Charlie, Averi, Saige, and Julian. I know the last one is sort of masculine, but it feels like it really fits sometimes, you know?”_ Linda chattered, her voice burbling out of the phone. 

 

Because Linda was agender, she was planning on legally changing her name to a unisex one. Ms. Hudson knew all too well the struggle of finding a name that felt right, like it fit you beautifully and was made just for you. “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. Try them out; one a day.” 

 

 _“So, I’m going on a date with this girl tonight; her name’s Kaitlin. When do you think I should tell her what my pronouns are?”_ Linda’s tone took on a more serious note. 

 

“Hmm . . .” Ms. Hudson looked thoughtfully at the food she was leaving out to make the turkey. It was always a bit difficult, deciding when and how to tell someone what your pronouns were. “I guess tell her on your first date tonight,” she said, finally having made up her mind. “You don’t want to put it off, Linda, or else it’ll look like just one big thing you were keeping from her. Remember Derek?”

 

Derek was Ms. Hudson’s second boyfriend, who had been gay. She hadn’t known that, of course, or else she wouldn’t have dated him. She’d always thought he was bisexual. He had felt extremely scandalized, to say the least, after she’d had a sit down and talked with him (which was when she’d found out Derek was gay). It was all extremely messy, that conversation. 

 

 _“Yeah, I remember him,”_ Linda replies, chuckling. _“I don’t think he could’ve gotten angrier if he tried.”_

 

Ms. Hudson nodded, making an absent noise of agreement into the phone. “I have to go,” she said. “Sherlock wants me to make a Thanksgiving dinner . . . don’t ask why; I don’t know.”

 

 _“Ew. Those take forever to make.”_ Linda sounded sympathetic, but also as if she was glad she wasn’t Ms. Hudson. _“I’ll see you tomorrow at the Grind House, ok? I swear their peppermint mocha lattes are to die for.”_

 

“See you then,” Ms. Hudson said wistfully. She hung up, wishing desperately the day would just _end_ already. Days like today made her long for the days full of leisure time. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ms. Hudson was humming along to when Joan padded into the kitchen. “How’s it going?” Joan asked, sounded well-rested.

 

“Oh, you know . . . trying not to have a nervous breakdown,” Mrs. Hudson replied in a voice that sounded like tightly wound coils. “I’m barely halfway done, and I can’t this done for dinner, and there’s no way we’ll be able to enjoy the meal.” She looked close to crying.

 

Joan clucked. “You know I’m more than happy to help you, Martha. Come on, I’ll get the rest of the meal done; you just worry about the turkey and stuffing.”

 

“Mmm-mmm, I can’t let you do that,” Ms. Hudson lightly scolded, rapping Joan’s knuckles, which were already at the counter digging in to help. “This is my job.”

 

“As your friend, it’s my legal obligation to help you when you’re stressed.” Joan rolled her eyes. “You don’t get a choice; I’m helping.”

 

Ms. Hudson dramatically sighed, though her body seemed to relax slightly. “Thanks, Joan,” she said, turning her focus solely to the turkey, since the stuffing 

 

The radio was on, and playing Demi Lovato’s “Heart Attack”. Personally, at this point, Ms. Hudson was in agreement - if she, Martha, ever fell in love right now, she’d have a heart attack. 

 

Things were starting to get more busy for her. Sherlock had mentioned he was thinking about hosting a dinner party or two when he and Joan got back from the case they’d solved today. 

 

That meant more cooking and cleaning, but it also meant she got paid more. It wasn’t as if Ms. Hudson could complain; this was her job, after all. And Sherlock was a lax boss. 

 

Time seemed to pass relatively quickly, with Joan’s help, and after two hours of giggling and talking, they were finished with the meal. 

 

“Do you want to go get Sherlock?” Ms. Hudson asked. “Or shall I?”

 

“Can you tell him it’s ready?” Joan was wiping off some food that had splattered onto her forehead. “I think he might be sleeping, and you know how he gets when I wake him up . . .”

 

Ms. Hudson nodded sympathetically. Even though Sherlock and Joan were doing better friendship-wise, Sherlock still got incredibly tetchy and grouchy when Joan woke him up. 

 

Moments later, Ms. Hudson was standing outside his door, after helping Joan put some things away. She knocked, but got no answer. “Sherlock, dinner’s ready!” she called out softly. Still, no answer.

 

She tried the doorknob - it provided no resistance, which meant the door wasn’t locked. It was odd, since Sherlock was usually adamant about locking his door whenever he was in his room. It was soon obvious why the door was unlocked, though: there was no one in Sherlock’s military neat room. 

 

Except for a note on his bed.

 

Ms. Hudson hurried out of the room, the note in her hand, and yelled from the top of the stairs, “Joan! Sherlock’s not in his room anymore!” 

 

There was a pause, and then: “Are you fucking joking? I thought we _just told him_ not to go off on his own!” 

 

“At least he left a note!” Ms. Hudson replied loudly, coming down the stairs. Joan met her at the bottom of them.

 

“What does it say?” Joan queried, peering at the paper. 

 

“‘ _Sorry for taking off; I know you two are probably nervous/angry. Well, probably more angry than nervous. I’m fine, so don’t worry. Had to go out and get something to make tonight amazing. Going to be a surprise. Will be back in time for the thanksgiving dinner_ ,’” Ms. Hudson read aloud. “And he signed his name at the bottom.”

 

They frowned at each other, and Joan murmured, “I wonder what he wanted to get that it he felt he had to acquire on his own.”

The other woman bit her lip anxiously. “You don’t think he’s going to go get some more . . . drugs, do you?” 

 

Joan shook her head. “No. We haven’t seen Rhys Kinlan - Sherlock’s old drug dealer - since I first started working with him. And that was two years ago.” She paused, then added, “I think Sherlock broke contact with him.”

 

“So where could he be?” Ms. Hudson re-read the note. 

 

“I don’t know,” Joan replied. “I’m not sure what he needs to make tonight better - we already made the food. Unless there’s some weird Thanksgiving tradition I don’t know about.”

 

Ms. Hudson looked at her with a slightly bemused expression. “There aren’t any weird traditions, besides eating basically the same food every year and getting really full at the end of the meal.”

 

“My family never celebrated Thanksgiving,” Joan informed her, in response to the confusion Ms. Hudson was clearly feeling. “My parents thought it was a ridiculous American tradition, and even though I felt part American, they never recognized it as an official holiday.”

 

They were quiet for a moment before Ms. Hudson spoke again. “You know, maybe that’s what Sherlock went out to get. Since you’ve never celebrated a “proper Thanksgiving”. He wants some mystery item to make it all feel complete. Although, like you said, I’m not sure what he wanted.”

 

Joan sighed, then walked over to the shoe cupboard. “Well, I guess we’ll find out, since we’re gonna have to look for him.” Before she could put on her shoes, however, there was a knock at the door. And upon opening it, Ms. Hudson revealed a slightly sweaty Sherlock holding a plastic bag.

 

“Where’ve you been?” Joan demanded. “We were worried!” She had her hands on her hips, and so Ms. Hudson decided to beat a hasty retreat. 

 

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she announced, darting off.  
  
Sherlock barely paid Ms. Hudson any mind; he was busy giving Joan a pout. “I wanted to get you something, and this is how I am thanked?”

 

“I can’t believe you’re trying to emotionally manipulate me by using a guilt-tripping method.” Joan shot him a you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself expression before walking back to the kitchen, bickering with Sherlock the whole short way there. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the link to RAINN, the largest anti-rape organization in the U.S.: http://centers.rainn.org/http://centers.rainn.org/ You can find lots of stuff there to help.
> 
> Here is a link to international resources, which is also on RAINN’s website: https://rainn.org/get-help/sexual-assault-and-rape-international-resources 
> 
> Here’s a link to a rape crisis website: http://www.rapecrisis.com
> 
> Here’s the phone number for the National Sexual Assault Hotline (I’m 90% sure it only works in the U.S.): 800-656-4673
> 
> And here’s a list for international sexual assault resources: https://rainn.org/get-help/sexual-assault-and-rape-international-resources 
> 
> Keep yourself as safe as you can and I love you xx


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